Ode to stiff-armed grandchildren
I cannot recommend them enough
Yesterday, these stinkers turned 12. They have parties planned later this week (one is at an escape room, God help us), and we FaceTimed this morning during which I tried to tell them mushy stuff, but as do any good pre-teens, they begged off.
Plus, I’m not precisely great at saying mushy things, but I have stopped sweating that because I don’t remember the Best Grandmother Ever, the Template Of All Old Women Marvie K. Marrs, ever saying much beyond “I love ye.” I remember her husband, Loyd Marrs, coming to one of my track meets and saying after I completed a race that I “ran like a deer.”
And that, sports fans, is the entirety of the compliments and warm fuzzies passed between us.
But I knew I was loved, and being told I ran like a deer by a guy who didn’t seem impressed by much meant the world to me. I can tell you where we were all standing that day and the way the afternoon light looked around us. I hope I stammered out a thank-you. I imagine I changed the subject.
What mattered was that if these two paragons of decency didn’t talk about love, they showed it by being present and giving direction and listening to me as if I actually had something to say. My grandfather could be harsh (Scot-hillbilly harsh) and my grandmother was fairly proficient at swinging a switch, but they were there, unfailingly and mostly smiling.
I once called my grandpa because my car broke down in a snowstorm, and he did. He lashed a rope around my car’s bumper, and towed me — screaming my head off behind the wheel of my disabled car — all the way home. Who does that? Lloyd Marrs, that’s who. I cannot count the number of my grandma’s flitters — fried pie dough with sugar and cinnamon sprinkled on it — I ate, or the times we just sat visiting about nothing — for hours.
I am lucky to live fairly close to the two children hanging above and if they aren’t acting like they’re hearing me, I get it. They will. I’m there and that has made all the difference.
I imagine you’re quite a fun grandma and those young’uns one day will appreciate any mushy thing you ever said. My Grandpa Duncan was a FL Scot/hillbilly. I don’t remember him saying any mushy thing to me. His expression of love was buying you a soda pop at the gas station or a hamburger at the diner if you rode into town with him in his ancient pick-up that rattled like pieces of it were about to drop off. My grandma Nellie Duncan never said “I love you” but would demonstrate it by literally baling a cake if she knew you were coming to visit or by whipping up a blouse or skirt for you on her trusty ol Singer with a foot peddle before you left.
My Grandmother ( good Swedish stock) once told me her children and grandchildren were the "jewels in her crown". Now that I have 4 wonderful grands of my own, I know exactly what she meant. I am a very lucky woman, No, love isn't always said out loud, but it abounds in our family. It's beautiful , and my heart is full.